Thanks to my irascible stance on Facebook, I, alone, am doomed to actual in-person conversations with actual people in order to “network.” As such, I felt motivated a few weeks ago to hop on a cheap flight south on the occasion of a Meeting of the McDonogh Minds outside Hollywood. So, in the absence of any actual football news to relate, here’s a story about Los Angeles for those considering a move down to that dog-forsaken place.
In an effort to respect his busy work schedule, I declined my kind host’s offer to pick me up at the airport. and, ever frugal, his sensible advice to take a cab. I opted instead for the adventure of Los Angeles public transportation.
Two things you might want to know about public transportation from LAX to Hollywood.
1. The first 4 stops are, if I remember correctly: Compton, Long Beach, Inglewood, Whoopty-Whoop! I won’t swear to that because I was peeking through my trembling fingers the entire time. I occupied my time trying to decide which would make me look like a better candidate to be murdered: my iPhone, or my copy of Infinite Jest.
2. Paying for public transportation is, apparently, completely fucking optional. You can buy a ticket, but there’s no machine to swipe it before you get on the train, no one to show it to onboard, and, of course, no machine to swipe it on the way out. It’s like a Stupid Tax. For the record, I bought a $5 All Day Pass, though as far as I could tell, the city of Los Angeles didn’t seem to care whether I lived or died, much less got on the train one too many times.
Naturally, when I emerged from the subway, I was confronted with a 10ft tall Tree Man. Amazingly, he wasn’t selling anything or hyping up a new restaurant, but just going about his 10ft tall day, dressed as a tree, talking on his phone. You can sorta seem him here, but, my hands were still a little bit shaky:
As I passed by TreeMan on my way to my friend’s office, I discovered that he, just like me, was talking on his iPhone, discussing a script he’d just finished. I didn’t have time to ask which Ivy League school he’d attended, but if I had to guess, Yale.
I’ll spare you the details of the actual event except to note that my voice has decided now’s a good time to start cracking again, and that I drank too much and tried to convince a girl I barely knew in high school that her name was Lauren and not Laura. Or the other way around. It’s tough to say.
The next day, my hat ( and script ) in hand, I made my way back to the subway. Stopped on the exact same corner as before, I looked up and soon realized what 10ft Tall Tree Man was doing at that particular intersection:
Yep. The Hollywood headquarters of the Church of Scientology. I don’t know if 10ft Tall Tree Man is a deity in their belief system, or if he/it is destined to explode into a thousand splinters, each of which will become the master race of a thousand much smaller movie-loving planets, but there it is. That explains that. Again, sorry for the chopped pic; apparently Scientologists don’t like getting their picture taken.
Finally, and without paying, mind you, I boarded the train for LAX and took a seat in the back ( so that no one could sneak up on me). Next to me stood a large, Slim Charles-looking muthafucka. Despite the packed train, Slim decided to catch up with his friend at the front of the train, and they shared stories about their time in jail together. (No seriously, people they knew, how long they were in and what for, etc ) For the rest of us, there wasn’t much to do except to stare out our windows and pretend that we weren’t listening to Slim and his friend shout obscenities back and forth.
We switched trains and Slim took a seat a few seats ahead of me.
Eventually, times being what they are, a small Mexican man stood up at the front of the train with a guitar. In broken, nervous English, he started to explain that he’d recently become unemployed, and that he and his family were essentially homeless. He was obviously a proud man, and Slim took pity on him, telling everyone in the noisy train to shut up so that the man could play a song. Satisfied, Slim nodded to the man, and he started to play. That’s Slim on the left in the white t-shirt and black chucks:
As he started to strum, I recognized the riff, but I couldn’t place the song until he started singing:
“You got to change your gangsta ways, baby! / Before I stop loving you…/ You got to change your gangsta ways…”
I started laughing to myself at the new lyrics to Santana’s Evil Ways — ‘gangsta’ for ‘evil’ was the only substitution — and looked at Slim who had pulled a large wad of cash out of his pocket. I couldn’t believe this little guy was up there singing that to a train full of thugs ( and, to be fair, one unemployed writer ). It was beautiful. Finally, Slim heard the “gangsta ways” line and started laughing. Soon, he and his friends began singing the new lyrics with the guitarist, slapping their knees and mumbling over the verses until the chorus made its way back around. For a few minutes, everything was right in the world.
Afterward, as the guitarist made his way down the train, collecting money in his hat, Slim handed the appreciative man a number of bills and told him “Hey man, at least you out here earnin’.”
But, I don’t think Slim changed his gangsta ways.
On to the games after the jump….
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